“Take your cloak off,” he said.
Isabella stared at him for an unnervingly long time before she obeyed. Her expression was quite blank. Then she permitted the cloak to slip from her shoulders and fall to the floor.
Her gown was quite simply the most sinfully beautiful creation he had ever seen. Marcus realized that he was gaping and shut his mouth with a snap. Of deep cherry-red silk, it swathed every inch of her from her neck to her ankles, wrapping her in a sinuous sheath of material. The color suited her to perfection. It made her skin radiant and her eyes glow a deep, forget-me-not-blue. She took his breath away.
There was absolutely nothing about the outfit that he could object to—and it was absolutely not the type of gown he wanted other men to see his wife wearing. Not when he was unable to strip the clothes from her and make love to her with all the pent-up fury and feeling that possessed him. The thwarted desire that he had managed to repress since the previous night came back with a potent rush. Damn it, she would drive him insane at this rate.
“That is very—” He paused. It was not too tight, yet he could see every curve, every line of her body defined in exquisite and tantalizing detail. The surge of sexual frustration that shook him then silenced him for a moment.
“Very nice,” he finished lamely.
Isabella looked disdainful. “Did you think that I would dress like a whore to humiliate you? I assure you, my lord, that I have plenty of self-respect even if I have no respect for you.”
Marcus winced at her accurate assessment of his thoughts. He knew respect was not a God-given right. His years in the navy had shown him that it had to be earned and he could not deny that he had done precious little to earn Isabella’s in the time that they had been married. And yet he reminded himself that this was the woman who the Ton reviled as an adventuress, the woman who had taken India Southern’s inheritance from her and ruined her relationship with her mother. He would do well to remember that whatever hand Isabella was dealt, she deserved.
He bent down and picked her cloak up for her, remembering that he had something to give her.
“I want you to wear these.” He withdrew a small, velvet bag from his pocket. “They are the Stockhaven jewels.”
The necklace was of diamonds, not the huge, ostentatious type, but a web of tiny, sparkling, delicate drops of light strung on a golden thread. He held them out to her but she did not take them. She shook her head slightly.
“It is not right for me to have these. I have plenty of paste jewelry.”
Marcus frowned. “It is appropriate for my wife to wear the Stockhaven jewels.”
Isabella pushed his hand away gently, and with it the bag and the necklace. “Appropriate. How you like that word, Marcus. I do not think it appropriate for your estranged wife to wear this. It is so exquisite that it should be worn with love.”
Estranged. It was a very lonely word.
Marcus struggled. “India never wore them. She did not care for them.”
He had not meant to tell Isabella that; had not meant the words to come out at all. He owed India his loyalty, even if it was the only thing he could now give her.
He thought Isabella would look pleased that her cousin and rival had not worn the jewels. He was already proffering the necklace to her again when she turned aside from him.
“That was not what I meant.” She swung round so suddenly that Marcus was startled. “Give them to someone you care for, Marcus. They are too good for anything else.”
She took the cloak from him. It swirled about her as she crossed the marble floor to the door, her evening slippers clicking sharply on the stone. She did not even pause to see if he was following her.
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Henry Belsyre?” he asked as they seated themselves in the carriage.
Isabella did not look at him. “The ambassador of the United States of America? Yes, I have met him before. I did not know that the Belsyres had returned to London, though. They served a term of office here before, did they not?”
“They returned just this week, so I understand,” Marcus said, “hence the short notice for tonight.” He looked at her. “If you know the Belsyres, you will know that they are very influential. They move in the first political circles.”
Isabella stifled a yawn. “Politics! How boring!”
Marcus cast her another look. “Tonight is important to me, Isabella. I have been doing some work for the Admiralty and the Home Office, and I may wish to pursue a political career in the future. The contacts I make this evening—” He broke off, wishing that he had not said anything. It felt as though he was exposing a weakness to her and he had already learned the hard way that Isabella would exploit any opportunity he gave her. His nerves tightened with a curious mixture of anticipation and enjoyment. He was actually relishing this battle with his wife. The challenge of it was addictive.
“I understand,” she said neutrally. “This evening must go smoothly for you.”
“It sounds as though you know Henry Belsyre well,” Marcus said. “Did you meet him and his wife abroad?”
Isabella was looking out at the darkening streets. A flambeau flared on a corner as a link boy guided a couple along the pavement. A laughing group of young men jostled one another as they crossed the road. Isabella allowed the curtain to fall back into place, enclosing them in darkness.
“I have known the Belsyres for many years,” she said. “Mr. Belsyre was my—” She broke off. Marcus waited but she offered no further information. He felt frustrated. He had the numbing feeling that he could never discover her deepest secrets. He was feeling none of the satisfaction he had expected to feel when he wrested her life away from her and imposed his own rules on her.
“One of your former lovers, I suppose,” he said.
Her blue gaze pinned him like a shard of ice. “You suppose incorrectly,” she said coldly. She did not speak again until the carriage arrived at their destination.
One glance was sufficient to tell Marcus that the rooms were packed with the luminaries of the political and diplomatic worlds. Henry Belsyre, American ambassador to the Court of St. James, was as influential a diplomat as one could find—statesmen, soldiers and politicians flocked to his soirees. Marcus’s hand tightened on Isabella’s arm as they approached their hosts. Belsyre was chatting to Lord Sidmouth and Princess Esterhazy, but broke off with a word of apology as he saw them and strode forward, beaming.
“Isabella! We had no notion you had returned to London! What a splendid surprise!” Under Marcus’s bewildered gaze, he kissed her soundly on both cheeks, then held her at arm’s length. “Rose, Isabella has arrived!”
“Good evening, sir,” Isabella said, smiling. “This is wonderful! I thought you still in Washington.”
“No need for the formality,” Belsyre grumbled. “There was a time you called me Uncle Henry rather than sir, if you recall.”
Isabella laughed. “I was about six years old then, sir, and you were not an ambassador.”
Uncle Henry? Marcus stared. It was not the type of previous relationship that he had imagined between them. Rose Belsyre was actually hugging Isabella. Marcus was left standing unnoticed, like the plain debutante whom no one asks to dance.
“You look enchanting, my dear,” Mrs. Belsyre said, smiling. She turned to Princess Esterhazy. “Maria, you have met Princess Isabella Di Cassilis, have you not?”
“Of course,” Princess Esterhazy said. Her smile was warm. “My dear Isabella, I heard a rumor that you were back in Town. Why did you not call?”
“She was too busy getting married,” Belsyre said, smiling broadly.
Isabella turned slowly to look at Marcus. For one dreadful moment he thought she was going to announce the entire story of their marriage to the assembled company. He looked at her and she looked steadily back at him. He knew she could read his mind. He waited for the ax to fall, and all his future plans along with it.
“I beg your pardon, Marcus.” Isabella spoke with perfectly judged char
m. “I was so delighted to see Mr. and Mrs. Belsyre again that I quite forgot to perform the introductions. Ladies and gentlemen—” she turned at the surrounding company “—this is my husband, Marcus Stockhaven.”
It was a perfect put-down because it could not be faulted for courtesy. Marcus had a sudden and extraordinary insight into what it might be like always to be a wife in her husband’s shadow, greeted second, of lesser importance. He remembered telling Isabella in the Fleet that he disliked the idea of being married for his money and then discarded, and she had told him sweetly that now he knew what it was like to be a woman….
“Stockhaven!” Henry Belsyre gripped Marcus’s hand in a firm handshake. “Delighted to see that Isabella has made such a sound choice for her second match. Many congratulations.”
Suddenly everyone was looking at him. It had never previously troubled Marcus when he had been an outsider. He had experienced something similar when he had joined the navy with no man’s patronage to support him, and again when he had gone to Lord Standish to ask for Isabella’s hand in marriage and had been received with such disparaging lack of interest. He had never cared before. It had amused him. He had made his own luck and his own prospects. Now, however, he felt as though someone had pulled the carpet out from beneath him. He looked at Isabella as she stood with Mr. and Mrs. Belsyre on each side of her, Princess Esterhazy looking down her nose at him in that way she had of examining something not quite pleasant on her shoe, the Prince de Lieven and Lord Sidmouth on the sidelines. Here was a group of people whose view of his wife was very different from the spiteful tittle-tattle of the Ton. Here was a group who could make or break his ambitions and at their center was Isabella. The balance between them had shifted dramatically.
He cleared his throat. “I had not realized that you were all so well acquainted,” he managed to say.
Isabella smiled faintly. “Mr. Belsyre was an old friend of my father.”
Oh, hell. Marcus remembered her words in the carriage, the way she had fallen silent and the way in which he had leaped to a fairly large conclusion, driven onward by his anger and possessiveness.
He caught her arm, drawing her toward him. “Why did you not tell me?” He kept his voice very low.
Her eyes were cold. She shook him off, but gently so that no one could see the repressed anger in her. “Why should I tell you anything, my lord? You never had that right. Just be grateful that unlike you, I do not stoop to shoddy revenge.”
Marcus could not believe her. He remembered the way that she had bartered with him in the Fleet. “There must be something you want. What is your price? Money?”
She whitened. “You should learn that not everything can be bought, Stockhaven.”
“That is rich, coming from you, madam.”
They stared at one another for what seemed forever, locked in each other’s eyes.
“Dinner,” Belsyre said, making them both jump. “If you could escort Lady Sidmouth, Stockhaven…”
The event was stuffed with high-ranking nobility and it had not occurred to Marcus that since Isabella was retaining her title of princess, she would be seated considerably farther up the table than he would. He was obliged to watch the Prince de Condé lavish attention on his wife in what Marcus considered to be an insufferably familiar manner. And yet the rational man who was still somewhere within him was obliged to admit that Isabella dealt with the prince’s offensive overtures very neatly. Since he was watching her all the time, Marcus saw the exact moment when Condé bent close to her, as though merely emphasizing a point in the conversation, and brushed his lips against her bare shoulder. Isabella said one word—a word that made Condé bite his lip—and turned away to talk to the Duke of Hamilton on her other side.
Marcus found that he was already halfway out of his seat, ready to ram the man’s roast pheasant down his throat.
“Sit down, Stockhaven,” Belsyre urged, catching his sleeve. He gestured for some more wine to be served, smoothing over the awkward moment. “Isabella can deal with Condé,” he added under his breath. “She has had plenty of experience dealing with churlish foreign princelings.” His tone softened. “Not that I blame you, man. Isabella has had a difficult time of it. Don’t mind admitting that if dueling had not been outlawed, I would have taken a shot at Di Cassilis myself. Surprised the man survived as long as he did.”
“Did you know him, sir?” Marcus asked, surprised at the ambassador’s frankness.
“Unfortunately I did,” Belsyre said. “Shocking match to make for Isabella. I was her father’s oldest friend. Could barely bring myself to speak to him afterward.” His blue eyes appraised Marcus shrewdly. “Still, I imagine you know all this, Stockhaven. Old history. Glad you and Isabella were able to put it all aside. She once told me that she would rather have been the wife of a sea captain than Princess of Cassilis.”
He turned back to Lady Cowper on his right, and Marcus was left staring at his congealing pheasant with a certain degree of perplexity. What was it about Isabella Di Cassilis that seemed to inspire such loyalty in family, friends and servants alike? She had Pen, to whom she was clearly devoted, and Freddie, who would overcome his natural diffidence to stand up for her. She had Churchward, who would do what a lawyer should never do and actually rebuke Marcus for his behavior because he felt so strongly. And then there were these eminent people whom she had met during her years abroad, people who evidently held her in high regard.
She once told me that she would rather have been the wife of a sea captain than Princess of Cassilis….
The message was not difficult to read. There had been a time when he had been a sea captain and Isabella had accepted his proposal of marriage. It could merely have been a figure of speech on her part when she was speaking to Belsyre, but suddenly, Marcus wondered.
Isabella was tired. Reentering the sophisticated political world, so very different from the fashionable Ton ballrooms, had been an ordeal of another sort. Even though they had spent much of the time apart, she had been achingly conscious of Marcus throughout the evening. She knew that he had been watching her.
She had lulled him into a false sense of security, of course, by her vague references to the Belsyres and to the fact that political dinners bored her. She had seen the horror on Marcus’s face when he had finally realized that these were people with whom she was closely acquainted. He had been wondering what she might do to extract her revenge. And she could not deny that the moment had been sweet. She had seen his shock and the way he had braced himself for whatever she was going to say. Turning the tables on him, feeling that power, had been heady.
Even so, she would not use it. That was not her way. If she could not have Marcus’s good opinion—if she could not have Marcus’s love—then she wanted nothing else from him other than that he would leave her alone. That was what she would bargain for.
By the time the ladies withdrew, Isabella would happily have kicked off her evening slippers, curled up on the sofa and gone to sleep, were it not for the fact that Princesses de Lieven and Esterhazy were intent upon discovering the reasons behind her hasty marriage to Marcus. Parrying their questions, she mentioned a past attachment and tried to turn the conversation. The Belsyres were such old family friends that they knew that she had been set to marry Marcus before Ernest had upset her plans. Isabella knew it was only a matter of time before the story of her original engagement to Marcus circulated, and then everyone would assume, as Rose Belsyre had already done, that this was a highly romantic reunion. They would think it a love match. How very ironic.
As soon as Marcus came into the room, she knew that he wanted to talk to her. She could read it in his face. She delighted in frustrating his efforts by engaging in animated conversation with everyone else and keeping her shoulder firmly turned toward him.
But she knew it was only a matter of time. Marcus was hardly a patient man. And then Princess de Lieven sabotaged her by patting the seat beside her and summoning Marcus over with a gesture that could not be
ignored. Isabella thought that he complied with alacrity.
“We have been asking Lady Stockhaven what it was that prompted this whirlwind wedding, my lord,” Princess de Lieven said. “It sounds remarkably romantic. A past attachment…old flames…”
Marcus looked at Isabella. His smoky dark eyes held a gleam she mistrusted. “Oh, it has been most romantic, ma’am,” he agreed smoothly.
Isabella shifted. “Unimaginably so,” she said.
The ladies sighed in unison at such a vision of loving bliss.
“And you have been wed for…” The princess paused, her gaze inquisitive.
“Ten days, ma’am,” Marcus supplied.
“Each day more special than the last,” Isabella said.
Marcus gave her a dark, direct look. “I am happy you should think so, my love.”
“But then,” Isabella said gently, “I do not have much to compare it with, do I?”
There was a slightly awkward silence while the princesses sensed that something was not quite as romantic as they had thought it.
“It said in the papers that it was a marriage of convenience,” Princess Esterhazy put in, “but one can see from merely looking at you that such a notion is fair and far out.”
“It could not be further from the truth, ma’am,” Isabella agreed. “No marriage has ever been less convenient. Pray excuse me. I am sure that Lord Stockhaven will be happy to give you his own version of the match.”
She had wanted to have a little time on her own in the peace of the ladies’ withdrawing room, but she knew it was unlikely Marcus would give her that opportunity. She was quite right. He caught up with her before she was halfway across the room.
“A moment, madam.”
He caught her wrist in a grip that was not tight but that she could not have broken without an undignified tussle.
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